


Homebound

by SailorChibi



Series: Searching for Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor!John, Fluff, Greg working himself to the death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, Pre-Slash, Sherlock and John putting a stop to it, Slash, Threesome - M/M/M, general sweetness, my first attempt at an ot3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg hasn't been taking care of himself at all. Fortunately, John and Sherlock are there to pick up the slack... and maybe be a little more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homebound

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the BBC kink meme. I found this difficult to write because you don't even know how much of a OTP Johnlock is for me, but I gave it my best shot.

The thing about being a detective inspector is, long after the rest of his team has gone home and fallen into bed, Greg Lestrade has to stick around and tie up the little odds and ends: finish the never ending mountain of paperwork, make sure that witness statements have been submitted, track Sherlock down to take his statement (and sometimes this takes longer than everything else combined, or at least it did before John Watson came around), and then file it all away. And that's why he's still in his office at four in the morning, staring blearily down at a statement that is moving. No, not moving, just swaying: the letters twisting oddly, smearing into a blur of ink across the once crisp page.

It takes a full minute for Greg to realize that _he_ is the one swaying, not the statement.

His eyes feel gritty, and when he blinks it seems to take an impossible amount of strength to drag his eyelids back up. He gropes around blindly for the cup of coffee he remembers Sally setting on the edge of his desk before she left. The taste is revolting, too much sugar and ice cold, and his stomach lurches in hungry protest, but he forces himself to swallow. He needs the caffeine to keep from falling asleep at his desk, and he knows he won't make it down to the machine; he's got exactly enough energy left to finish this paperwork and drag himself downstairs to a cab. He'll take the cab back to his stupid little flat and fall asleep for an hour, maybe two if he’s lucky and gets his arse in gear, before he gets up and does it all again.

"Come on, Lestrade, let's get this done," he mutters, the sound of his voice doing little to help perk him up. He resignedly sets pen to paper and signs his signature, pretending not to notice that it comes out distinctly more wobbly than it probably should have, the letters drifting away from the straight line. Under normal circumstances he'd do it over if only to avoid Sally's annoyed look when she inevitably stumbles across the shoddy work, but tonight – or rather, this morning he just can't be arsed.

He sets that paper aside and looks down at the next one, his eyes lingering briefly on the name. Donna Henderson. Donna. The fact that the name of his ex-wife incites longing and wistfulness instead of anger and betrayal tells him that he is desperately tired, _over_ tired, probably to the point where he shouldn't be working any longer. Greg shakes his head and tips his head back on aching muscles, staring blankly at the ceiling. How many months has she been gone now? He can't even remember the exact amount, realizes then that he doesn't even know what day it is. But then that's alright, since knowing the day is not going to help him be a better detective inspector, a better husband, even a better man.

There's a dull throbbing developing above his left eye. For just a moment he lets them slip closed, knowing that his desk chair is far too uncomfortable for him to drift off for any length of time. Perhaps a twenty minute nap will give him the strength to continue and finish all of this bloody work, even if it will ultimately leave him with that much less time in his flat. Though maybe that's not such a bad thing considering that he hates that flat - it's small and it smells like wet dog even though his downstairs neighbour claims he doesn't have a dog, and the bed he bought since Donna kept theirs has a spring that pokes him in the back constantly. Really, his chair is probably the better bet.

Somewhere in the distance, a door opens and then shuts.

"I told you he would be here."

"Yes, I know, you're always right. _Jesus_ , he looks exhausted."

"Lestrade would be one of those men who require at least seven hours of sleep every night."

"Not everyone can be like you, Sherlock, and you can stop trying to pretend that you're not concerned. I can tell that you are."

This is an odd dream, Greg thinks, letting his head roll forward. He tries to open his eyes for several seconds before they cooperate and he peers up blearily into the faces of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. The two men are standing on the other side of his desk, John in a comfy looking jumper and Sherlock in his black coat and scarf. 

"Hello Greg," John says kindly. 

"He's half asleep, John. He can't understand you," says Sherlock. "You could set fire to the documents on his desk and he wouldn't care." Suddenly, his eyes light up. "I could look at the cold cases!"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock pouts and crosses his arms but subsides, leaning against the desk. Though he is obviously trying to affect an air of not caring, the way he looks at Greg says that he is actually quite a bit more worried than he's letting on. Which just adds extra credence to the fact that this must be a dream, because Greg knows for a fact that the only time Sherlock Holmes would be worried about him is if... well, actually Greg can't think of any such situations. He closes his eyes again and is all set to let himself slump forward onto his desk, but a strong, capable arm around his chest prevents him from doing so. He starts and tries to pull away instinctively.

"Shh," John murmurs, "just let me, okay?" Fingers touch his wrist, taking his pulse, and then the back of a hand rests against his forehead. Greg lets himself be manhandled, fully enjoying every touch against his skin. He can't remember the last time that someone actually _touched_ him. Donna hadn't wanted anything to do with him for months before they officially separated, and the rest of his interactions are not conducive to anything beyond the occasional handshake. This, however, goes far beyond politeness: John's hands linger where they touch him, stroking lightly at his wrist and neck, brushing hair from his forehead. It's the sort of touch that, in his darkest moments, Greg can admit he craves.

“John?”

“Dehydrated. Exhausted. Definitely hasn’t eaten in a while. Stressed. A complete lack of care for himself for far too long, basically.” John rattles his findings off flatly. “You two are so much alike sometimes it’s frightening.”

“We are not!”

“Yes, you are. Now come over here, Sherlock, and help me.”

Two sets of hands push Greg’s chair out from the desk and urge him to stand. Greg blinks fuzzily and finds himself leaning against, _on_ Sherlock, the arm around his waist supporting his weight as John gathers the remaining paperwork on his desk. This is not a dream, he realizes slowly as the three of them walk towards the door. His legs don’t want to cooperate and he keeps stumbling, half tripping, but although Sherlock looks annoyed his grip remains very gentle, guiding instead of pushing in a way that Greg wouldn’t have thought the consulting detective was capable of.

“Sherlock?” he says wonderingly. 

“Yes?”

“This isn’t – what are you doing?” Greg comes to a stop, or tries to, he nearly falls over when the room begins to sway again. John’s face appears in front of him and hands cup his cheeks. The swaying stops, which is helpful. “I have work to do.”

“The only thing you need to do is go to bed,” John says firmly. “We’ve been watching you, Greg. You’re running yourself into the ground. Every crime scene, you just look that much worse. At this rate you’re going to end up on stress leave if you’re lucky, and in the hospital with a heart attack if you’re not.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Come off it, John. Things haven’t been that bad.” He frowns then, noticing that John has put the remaining paperwork down on Sally’s desk. “You can’t – ”

“Can’t what?” Sherlock interrupts, his grip on Greg’s waist tightening fractionally. “Can’t pass on simple work to one of your underlings who are perfectly capable of completing it? I don’t have the highest opinion of Donovan’s taste in men, but she is more than competent enough to close off a file without supervision. You, on the other hand, have been working on the same file for well over two hours, now approaching three. You haven’t slept in an actual bed in four days. The last time you ate was this morning, and that was a doughnut.” He eyes Greg critically. “No, it was a muffin, brought to you by Anderson in a pitiful attempt to get back in your good graces after his appalling treatment of the evidence yesterday morning. I estimate that you have another four, possibly five, hours before you collapse.”

He opens his mouth to protest, to deny, and finds that he has nothing to say. “I don’t want to go home,” is what he finally comes out with, and isn’t that just grand, he can’t wait to hear what Sherlock will think of _that_.

As it turns out, Sherlock just smirks and closes in for the kill. “I don’t believe that John said anything about you going home. He said, and I quote, that the only thing you need to do is go to bed, and that is exactly where you’re going. John and I happen to have a very comfortable bed waiting for you back at 221b.”

No. There is _no way_. Greg digs his heels in. “Absolutely not. Let go of me, Sherlock, I mean it.”

“No,” says Sherlock.

“Greg,” says John, “listen, it makes the most sense.”

“It makes no sense!” Greg’s heart is beating very quickly and he thinks his face is probably flushed. His body is giving him away, maybe, or perhaps there is nothing to give away any longer. Sherlock knows everything and John never seems to be that far behind anymore. Possibly he’s been transparent glass to two of them all this time and wouldn’t that just be lovely? “I’m not – not going home with you two.”

“Yes, you are. You hate your flat. It’s small and you think it smells odd, probably because your upstairs neighbour has been hiding a dog for the past two months.” Greg just blinks at this. “There is no food in your cupboards and the only thing in your refrigerator is beer. That’s why you stay in your office for as long as possible, because you hate the idea of going back.” Verdigris eyes narrow knowingly. “You hate the thought that there is no one waiting for you, that you are always alone.”

It’s rather like being hit in the kidneys sometimes, listening to Sherlock’s deductions, and this time is no different: it leaves Greg feeling breathless. The only thing he can think to say in response is, “There’s also a casserole in my refrigerator.”

John barks out a laugh, a high-pitched little giggle that he quickly muffles when Sherlock scowls sulkily. “I hardly think that a by now rotting attempt at finding out more information about you from your nosy neighbour counts as food.”

“There’s always something,” John says teasingly, fondly, and the affectionate look the two men exchange makes Greg feels sick. He tries unsuccessfully to extract himself from Sherlock’s hold, but Sherlock just bats his hand away and keeps walking towards the door, now pulling Greg along. And, okay, it’s far easier to just match himself to Sherlock’s stride, letting Sherlock hold most of his weight. He is exceptionally tired and the thought of sleeping in any bed that’s halfway comfortable is extremely appealing. But Baker Street... that’s the one line he’s never dared allow himself to cross, mostly because there has never been any indication he’d be welcome on the other side, not with the way that Sherlock and John look at each other.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” he says feebly.

This time he’s outright ignored; Sherlock throws a hand up to stop a cab. John climbs in first and Sherlock pushes Greg in after him before climbing in, leaving him neatly tucked in between the two men so that there’s no chance of escape. And really, it’s not such a bad place to be. They’re both very warm and very strong, and he feels... safe, almost wanted. His eyes drift shut before he can stop them, and his head tilts automatically to the side, seeking more of that warmth, and he just barely remembers himself, stopping a second before it would have landed on a shoulder. Instead he deliberately rolls his head forward onto his chest, and the strain on his neck is worth it. He stays that way for the rest of the ride, not thinking, not bothering to try to watch the looks that Sherlock and John are exchanging over his head.

He really is nearly asleep by the time they arrive, discomfort be damned, and Sherlock has to half carry him up the stairs. Normally Greg would rather die before showing that kind of weakness in front of them, but. If they’re so insistent that he be here, they can deal with it. Sherlock drops him on the sofa, literally, and Greg curls up, biting back a moan at the sensation of his tired muscles sinking down, _resting_. Oh god, that’s pretty bloody blissful.

“Greg,” John says. “Greg.”

“What?” he says, or he thinks he says, it may have come out as more of a mumble.

“It’s no use, John,” Sherlock’s voice says. It sounds as though it is coming from very far away. “He’s out.”

John sighs. “I suppose it’s just as well. Can’t really proposition him when he’s this knackered. You did a good job getting him to come back with us. Well done.”

“Of course, John. I’ve had a lot of experience in getting Lestrade to do what I want.”

A soft, huffed laugh. “Of course you have, poor bugger. No wonder he’s tired. Do you suppose you could move him to the bedroom?”

“I’ll bring him in when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, love.”

Footsteps, then, John walking away, and Greg senses that there is someone looking down at him. Sherlock of course, he’d recognize the feel of those laser eyes anywhere. He’s tempted to open his eyes and let them both know he’s still been listening even if the words don’t mean a whole lot, but that requires rather more strength than he’s got at the moment. He can’t move, doesn’t want to move, not even when fingers ghost over his cheek, one tracing his lower lip, and then Sherlock sighs, so close that his breath caresses Greg’s ear. He doesn’t say anything more and, with nothing further to keep him awake, Greg gives in and lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a sequel posted in a few days, once it's been polished a bit.


End file.
